A Tale of One City: the New Birmingham eBook

It goes, of course, without saying that a business
that has been carried on for over a century has seen
great changes in regard to custom and customers.
Consequently, it is not surprising to learn that wealthy
iron-masters, the country gentry, and prosperous farmers
no longer make the purchases of silver and fancy wares
they did in the days that are no more. Black
country magnates have discovered they can now do without
many solid silver services, and even fairly well-to-do
rural people find they can at a pinch put up with
electro plate.

I confess I like to look at the bijou shop in High
Street and think what it must have seen and heard
in its time. It must have heard the bells of
St. Martin’s toll for the death of Nelson and
ring out joyous peals after Waterloo. It must
have seen disorderly crowds march past its doors at
the time of the Birmingham riots; more than this, it
felt something of the lawlessness that prevailed,
since the shop was looted and some of its contents
carried off by the rioters.

Yes, as I have said, it must have heard some pealing
and tolling of the St. Martin’s Church bells—­and
what charmingly mellifluous and melodious bells they
are! I do not profess to be a campanologist or
a bell hunter, but I have a loving ear for a sweet-toned
church bell, and can think of few belfries whose contents
surpass St. Martin’s, Birmingham. Although
I have not heard the “Bells of Shandon”
immortalised by Father Prout, I have, however, heard
Great Tom of Lincoln. I have listened to the “bonny
Christ Church bells” of Oxford, and my ears have
dwelt upon the sweet jinglings of the Carrillion at
Antwerp and in other Flemish cities. I have also
heard the dulcet chimings of many village church bells
in various parts of the land, and I have listened
with undelight to the unmusical tones of Big Ben of
Westminster, but so far as mellow tone is concerned,
I rarely hear any ordinary church bells that are more
dulcet and harmonious than the bells of St. Martin’s,
Birmingham.

Few people heed their beauties I am afraid; indeed,
some singularly insensible residents and traders in
the neighbourhood have been known to protest against
the charming chimings of the bells of St. Martin’s.
Those, however, who want to hear the true musical quality
and tone of these bells must select a quiet time,
as the Bull Ring is not a particularly peaceful spot
in the busy hours of day. Midnight is the witching
hour that should be chosen to listen to the music of
St. Martin’s belfry. It may be a late and
inconvenient hour for the experiment, but it is worth
it—­if the bells still chime at that “ghostly”
hour.

I am afraid I have indulged in a somewhat extensive
parenthesis, but my pen has run away with me, and
now it must come back to the old-fashioned High Street
shop where I lingered a few paragraphs back. The
adjoining premises to Mr. Pearsall’s, on the
east side, are also old and well in years. They
have been altered and provided with a modern “dickey”—­I
should say, front—­which rather hides their
antiquity. There is, however, still conspicuous
a quaint and curious spout-head which bears the date
1687, showing that these premises have more than passed
their bicentenary.